Mr Barrow Has a Chat
by tito72
Summary: Thomas doesn't know when the staring starts. He notices it sometime between May Day and Empire Day, sometime between luncheon and tea. Also known as, that time Thomas chats with a hall boy. Pre-slash.


Notes: I wanted to write a series of short fic where Mr. Barrow just does some stuff and Jimmy reacts, getting closer and closer to admitting he's crushing... so I did. And here's the first one.

Thomas doesn't know when the staring starts. He notices it sometime between May Day and Empire Day, sometime between luncheon and tea.

"D'ya know that boy's name?" he asks Jimmy in an undertone as the kid passes them in the hall, carrying something to somewhere for someone and his eyes lingering on Thomas rather longer than necessary.

Jimmy shrugs. "That's your job, isn't it, Mr. Barrow? Aren't you their minder?"

As a matter of fact, Thomas does mind the hall boys, but only nominally. He goes into their rooms every day after breakfast (not before, never before, because even though they're all up and about an hour before anyone else, Mr. Carson still worries that Thomas might catch one of them still abed and not be able to resist the urge to kiss them) and makes sure their beds are made and their floors are tidy. He's the one who relays Mr. Carson's special instructions to them every day about mid-morning, and he checks their place settings in the servant's hall, even though that's technically in Mrs. Patmore's realm of responsibilities. Still, even for all that, hall boys come and go and it's a bit beneath Thomas's dignity to remember all their names.

To Jimmy, all he says is, "hmm."

The staring doesn't stop. If anything, it gets worse. He feels the hall boy's eyes on him everywhere he goes and it's not so much that he feels uncomfortable as he feels deeply uneasy. Thomas supposes it might be a little hypocritical, after everything that happened with Jimmy, for him to worry about someone else being subtle, but the fact remains that in over thirty-three years of life as one of the lavender persuasion, he's only ever been caught out the once. He's schemed and he's scraped and he's lost everything more than once, but no one would deny he's also been quite discreet for the most part. And all that means that it's really sort of his duty to pass on what he knows about the life to this staring hall boy, even if it is rather beneath him to notice the kid. But first, he'll need his name.

"You, boy," Thomas says. The hall boy has just finished helping Daisy lay out the dishes for tea and he looks up at Thomas with wide, adoring eyes.

"Y-yes, Mr. Barrow?" he stutters.

"What's your name?"

"Olly, sir," the boy says. "Oliver."

"Well, Oliver, I'd like a word with you. Perhaps tonight after you've finished with your duties, we might take a walk." He doesn't make it a question.

"Of course, Mr. Barrow," the boy says at once.

The hall boys, of course, don't get to eat themselves until after the upper servants have finished, so it's quite late by the time Oliver sidles nervously up to stand behind Thomas's chair. Thomas has a winning hand, he's almost sure of it, because Jimmy's got that bit a smirk he always wears when he's bluffing and Molesley's poker face is quite possibly the worst in the history of card games. Oliver's quaking in his boots when Thomas glances at him sideways, though, so Thomas folds and stands.

"Need a breath of fresh air," he says by way of explanation when Jimmy starts to protest. "I'll see you lot tomorrow."

"Good night," Molesley says cheerfully enough and though Jimmy's still scowling, he nods, as well.

Thomas heads out into the night without saying anything to Oliver, who follows him obediently just the same and though Thomas doesn't look at him, he's sure he's wearing that puppy-love expression of his. They walk together in silence for a bit, Thomas with a fag in his mouth and Oliver with his hands twisting nervously in front of him. It doesn't take them long to reach the spot Thomas is aiming for, just out of sight from the house.

"Sit with me," he says. There's a convenient bench just off the path that Thomas knows young lovers often use for a bit of illicit necking, which isn't what Thomas has in mind, but it'll do for his purposes. He sits and pats the spot next to him, which Oliver takes after only a moment's hesitation.

"Now, then," Thomas says easily. He doesn't want to frighten the boy, so it'll be best to work up to the point of things. "Have you been in service long, Oliver?" He's been at Downton for about half a year, Thomas thinks, but he'd been fairly competent from the start, so he might've come from some other house.

"O-only two years, sir," the boy says, and in his nervousness, he starts to ramble. "Me mum was an 'ousemaid, you see, after me da died in the war, and she's what got me the job in the first place. But then when… after she died of the fever, I came here."

Thomas looks away politely as the poor lad wipes at his eyes and sniffs. He's so very young and though Thomas lost both his parents at about the same age, that was years ago and a lifetime away. He gives Oliver a minute to compose himself, stares vaguely at the moon and tries to think how he's going to say what needs saying. When he looks back, Oliver's eyes are quite dry and Thomas gives him a bit of a pat on the shoulder for reassurance or comfort or something.

"You've done quite well since you've been here," he says soothingly. "I'm sure your parents would be quite proud."

Oliver swallows and looks up at Thomas with wide, adoring eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow," he all but whispers. "s'kind of you."

"It's no trouble, lad," Thomas tells him. "But there is something we ought to have sort of a chat about, you and I. And because it's just the two of us out here, I'm going to speak plainly. You've been watching me, Oliver."

The way Oliver's breathing kicks up is rather obvious and he shakes his head jerkily in what must be panicked denial. "I-I dunno what you're talking about," he says quickly.

"Don't go gettin' yourself all worked up, boy," Thomas tells him. "You're not in trouble. I know what you're doing and I know why you're doin' it. It just so happens you've found an ally of sorts. You and I both, we're not like the others, lad. Do you understand me?"

The look of terror on Oliver's face has been replaced by a certain wariness. "I think so," he says slowly.

"Good," Thomas says, pleased with how this is going so far. "Then I want you to know, Oliver, you can come to me, any time you like. If you've got questions or whatnot. I've got a bit more experience than you, I'd wager, at this sort of life and I'll answer you as best I can. But you have to promise me one thing first, alright?" He waits until Oliver nods before he says anything more. "You've got to be more careful. No more staring in the hallways. I don't mind the looking, but the others will, so if you want to look at me, you've got to be a bit more cunning about it, haven't you?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Barrow," Oliver stutters out. "I… I can do that."

"Good," Thomas says and smiles at him in a way that makes Oliver blush and fidget. "You're quite a handsome lad, you know. When you're a bit older, I'm sure you'll catch some like-minded boy's eye."

He doesn't think it's possible for Oliver to blush more than he already was, but it happens somehow and Thomas feels really quite pleased with how the chat has gone, even if he's probably rendered the boy speechless for days. He doesn't know if Oliver will seriously take him up on his offer, but he hopes so. Thomas had had someone like that when he was a lad, a mentor of sorts, and though that'd been a rather more intimate relationship than this, it'd helped him come to solid terms with what he was and what he felt. It was thanks to that man that Thomas knows he's not an abomination of nature. It hasn't helped him in love, knowing that, but it does make it easier, just living day to day, just that small bit. If that's what Thomas can do for Oliver, well, it's not a good deed so much as just passing along a bit of wisdom to the next generation. It can be his good deed for the year, surely. And who knows, maybe it'll come back to him, ten-fold like.

"Well, then," he says, standing and ruffling Oliver's hair. "Let's get inside, shall we? I'd say it's a bit past the time when you should be in bed."

Oliver doesn't say anything on the walk back, though the way he stares the whole time makes Thomas wonder if any of his words have sunk in at all. The others have all gone up to bed, so Thomas escorts Oliver to his door and gives him a pat on the shoulder before he goes in. He'll give it time, he decides, and if Oliver's still staring obviously next week, they'll try another approach.

It doesn't take that long, actually. The very next day, Oliver's already keeping his eyes to himself and his head down, like a proper hall boy should. Thomas rewards him after servant's tea, catching him in the hall in front of the other boys and telling him with manners like his, it's not long now 'til he's ready to be a footman. It's not favoritism if it's true, and though he makes sure Mr. Carson isn't around when he says it, he knows the butler thinks the same, if he thinks anything at all about the lowly hall boys. And if the after the compliment Oliver looks at him and smiles, it's alright. Plausible deniability, that is.

"Well?" Jimmy asks as they're playing cards again that night. It's them alone in the hall and Thomas is losing his cigarettes one by one. He'll win them back tomorrow, but for now Jimmy's got most of the pack.

"Well what?" he asks, absently, studying his hand, plucking at one card then another.

"The boy," Jimmy says sharply. "That hall boy you walked with. Are you going to take up with him, or whatever it is your sort does?"

Thomas startles into a laugh and looks up from his cards. Jimmy's lovely expressive face is part curiosity, part anxiety, and a little bit something else, too, something Thomas can't identify. "Of course not," he says, and Jimmy's face eases a bit. "That boy's fourteen if he's a day! It were bad enough when I was cradle-snatchin' with you. I'm not about to go off shagging some boy barely out of short trousers."

Jimmy's reaction is not at all what Thomas is expecting. He looks, if anything, a bit offended. "I'm not too young for you," he says after a moment.

"You are," Thomas says. "I know you don't like to be told it, I didn't either when I was your age, but you're quite young still."

"Come off it," Jimmy says, throwing down a card seemingly at random, expression almost angrily. "You're only, what, 35? That's ten years older than me, no problems. Look at Anna and Bates, they've got to be further apart than that, even!"

"Thirty-three, actually," Thomas says quietly, playing his card, secretly touched at the fuss Jimmy's kicking up. He doesn't like feeling old and he does tend to feel his youngest when he's around Jimmy.

"Well, there you go, then," Jimmy says triumphantly, though because he's proved his point or won the round, Thomas doesn't know.


End file.
